Chapter 12

Chapter 12
Elara's POV

I needed to get upstairs. Now.

The backpack straps were cutting into my shoulders, weight pressing down like a physical accusation. Inside—silver blade, runic bracer, evidence of a life Emily and Ethan could never understand.

"You should eat something," Emily said again, hovering near the couch. Her hands twisted together, that nervous gesture I'd seen in Elara's memories. "Just a little soup? I can heat it up in five minutes—"

"Mom." I kept my voice gentle. "I'm really tired. Can I just go to bed?"

Her face fell. Again.

Guilt twisted harder in my chest, but I couldn't deal with this right now. Not with weapons strapped to my back and mud caked under my fingernails from digging up a weapons cache.

Ethan shifted from his spot by the door. "Let her rest, Mom. She looks like she's about to collapse."

Emily's gaze snapped to him, then back to me. "Your asthma—"

"Is fine." I stood, fighting to keep my movements steady. "The inhaler worked. I just need sleep."

She reached out, fingers grazing my wrist. "At least let me check your hands. They're all cut up—"

"Tomorrow." I pulled away, hating the hurt that flashed across her face. "I promise. Tomorrow."

Before she could argue, I headed for the stairs.

Each step felt like climbing a mountain. My legs shook. The backpack seemed to gain weight with every movement. Behind me, I heard Emily's quiet voice.

"Is she okay? She seems... different."

"She's exhausted, Mom." Ethan's response was smooth. Practiced. "Let her sleep."

I didn't look back.

The upstairs hallway was dark, lit only by a nightlight near the bathroom. Three doors—Ethan's room, the bathroom, and at the end, Elara's.

Mine. I guess it was mine now.

I pushed the door open.

The room was small. Maybe ten by twelve feet. Single bed against the wall, covered in a faded purple comforter. Desk shoved in the corner, laptop closed, books stacked neat. Posters on the walls—some band I didn't recognize, a nature scene, motivational quote about courage.

Everything was organized. Clean. Like Elara had tried to maintain control over this one tiny space in a life that kept spiraling.

I shut the door and locked it.

The backpack hit the floor with a dull thud. I stood there for a second, just breathing. My hands were shaking.

When was the last time I'd felt this exhausted?

In my past life, I'd gone three days without sleep during a territory war. Fought seventeen challengers in a row. Tracked a rogue pack across two hundred miles of frozen tundra.

But that body had been built for it. Alpha healing. Wolf stamina. This one was held together with asthma medication and sheer stubbornness.

I stripped off the jacket, wincing as dried mud flaked onto the carpet. The shirt underneath was torn at the shoulder, dirt-streaked. My jeans were worse—knees shredded, covered in forest debris.

I needed to wash this off before Emily came up to check on me.

The bathroom was across the hall. I grabbed clean clothes from the dresser—soft gray sweatpants, oversized hoodie—and cracked the door open.

Empty hallway. Downstairs, I could hear Emily and Ethan talking in low voices.

I slipped across to the bathroom and locked myself in.

The shower was tiny. Barely enough room to turn around. Water pressure weak. But when the hot water hit my skin, I almost groaned.

I watched dirt swirl down the drain. Brown water turning pink in places where cuts had reopened. My palms were the worst—raw blisters from digging, dirt ground deep into the creases.

I scrubbed until the water ran clear.

When I stepped out, steam had fogged the mirror. I wiped it with my hand and stared at my reflection.

Elara's face looked back. Pale. Dark circles under amber eyes. Wet hair plastered to my skull. Thin enough that I could see the shape of my collarbones too clearly.

This body was a mess.

I dried off and pulled on the clean clothes. The hoodie smelled like lavender detergent. Something Emily must have used. The scent was... comforting. Weirdly so.

I shoved that feeling down and headed back to my room.

The backpack sat where I'd left it. I stared at it for a long moment.

Where the hell was I supposed to hide this?

In my past life, weapons storage was simple. Armory in the pack house basement. Guards on rotation. Everything catalogued and secured.

Here? I had a teenage girl's bedroom and a family who'd probably have a heart attack if they found a silver combat knife under my pillow.

I knelt and unzipped the bag. Inside—the bracer, wrapped in cloth. The blade, still in its sheath. Both humming with faint runic energy that made my palms itch.

I couldn't keep these in plain sight.

I scanned the room. Bed—too obvious. Closet—Emily probably did laundry, would find them. Desk drawers—same problem.

My gaze dropped to the floor.

The hardwood was old. Worn in some places. Near the desk, a few boards looked slightly different in color. Lighter. Like they'd been replaced or moved recently.

I crawled over and tapped my knuckles against them.

Hollow.

My pulse kicked up.

I pulled the combat knife from the backpack and wedged the tip into the gap between boards. Pried gently. The wood creaked but gave way, revealing a space underneath. Maybe a foot square. Deep enough to hide—

I stopped.

There was already something inside.

A journal. Fabric-bound, edges worn. Next to it, a photograph and what looked like a half-finished scarf.

I pulled them out carefully.

The photo showed Blythe Harrison. Younger—maybe fifteen? Standing on a lacrosse field, stick in hand, grinning at the camera. Someone had drawn a heart in the corner with red pen.

The scarf was hand-knitted. Blue and gold—St. George's colors. Uneven stitches, like whoever made it was still learning.

I picked up the journal.

Don't open it. You know what's inside.

But my hands were already flipping to a random page.

March 15th

Blythe smiled at me today. Just for a second, but I saw it. He was talking to Sophia and her friends, and I walked past, and he looked up and smiled.

I know it doesn't mean anything. He probably didn't even register it was me. But I couldn't stop thinking about it all day.

I finished the scarf. It took me three months. I keep imagining giving it to him. What I'd say. How he'd react.

But I know I won't. Because girls like me don't give gifts to guys like him.

My chest went tight.

I flipped to another entry.

June 2nd

I saw him with Sophia again. They were laughing. She had her hand on his arm.

I hate her. I know that's wrong. Chloe says I should move on. But how do you move on from someone who's been in your life since you were six?

I started another scarf. This one's green. His favorite color.

I slammed the journal shut.

Elara had loved him. For years. Quietly. Desperately. While he barely noticed she existed.

And when he finally did notice—when he started using her feelings to get what he wanted—she'd let him. Because any attention from Blythe Harrison was better than none.

God, this girl.

I sat back on my heels, staring at the photograph.

In my past life, love was a liability. Attachment made you weak. I'd watched wolves lose everything because they couldn't let go of a mate who'd betrayed them.

I'd made sure no one ever had that kind of hold on me.

But Elara? She'd built her entire world around a boy who treated her like a convenience.

I should have felt contempt. Disgust, maybe.

Instead, I just felt... sad.

I put the photo and scarf back in the hiding spot. The journal I kept out. I'd read more later. Understand what I was working with.

Then I grabbed the backpack and shoved it into the space. The bracer and blade fit alongside the other items. Barely.

I replaced the floorboard and pushed the desk chair over it for good measure.

There. Hidden.

I stood, joints protesting. My body was screaming for sleep. The adrenaline from the forest encounter had worn off, leaving me hollow and shaky.

I stumbled to the bed and collapsed onto it.

The mattress was soft. Too soft. I was used to sleeping on stone floors, furs if I was lucky. This felt like sinking into a cloud.

I pulled the comforter up and closed my eyes, Elara's journal still clutched against my chest.

Sleep dragged me under before I could think about why I was holding it.